Drowning
by stfoosa
Summary: Title may be changed. AU. It all started when a young boy drowned at Stark's Pond, but the one who took the blame didn't necessarily deserve it. Slash included, as well as hetero.
1. Chapter 1

A new fic that I've been working on for some time now. It's still not finished, but I'm going to update as much as I can.

Please review, con-crit welcomed but please no flames.

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"Sir, we've found this one trying to dig under the wall at the back." A young man in his early twenties is thrown forwards onto the thick, red carpet, a small trickle of blood dribbling down from a minor cut on his forehead. His dark hair flops into one eye, as grey as an evening mist, and he grins up at the desk before him.  
"Hello," he mumbles, and the two thugs behind him glare down in disrespect. Behind the large desk, that is in fact a fold-able canteen dining table draped with an expensive looking cloth, sits a lean man who is masked with shadow; the only light source in front of him. The captured man knows exactly who it is, however, and simply smirks to himself.  
"Well, well, Craig. You know, of all people, I would have thought that you would have been on MY side." The man behind the desk snarls, and one of the two thugs grins before kicking Craig in the small of his back.  
"Hey! Watch it, tubby!" Craig protests, in a cocky voice, and this earns him a hit around the back of the head from the other thug, who has short black spiky hair and a pointed face. The man behind the desk glowers at this guard, but it goes unnoticed so he clears his throat and addresses the larger of the two.  
"Take him to one of the cells, Foxtrot Alpha, I need to speak to Echo Charlie." Is responded by a sharp salute, and a bow before Foxtrot Alpha, the scrawny guard, pulls Craig out the room by the armpits.  
The man behind the best waits until the sound of footsteps, and Craig's attempts at insulting Foxtrot Alpha recede, before beginning to attend to Echo Charlie.  
"I want Foxtrot Alpha punished for this, you hear me? I don't care what you do, just… do it," he waves a dismissive hand, and Echo Charlie grins and salutes before leaving and closing two heavy, plastic coated, double doors behind him.  
The man behind the desk sighs, and leans back in his spindly computer chair only to fall backwards completely and grumble to himself about funding cuts.

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"Stan, Craig's still missing." Clyde Donovan stands just inside the back door of Stan Marsh's kitchen, looking somewhat lost and disconcerted. Stan pinches his nose with his thumb and forefinger, his elbows on the plastic dinner table in front of him and a half-eaten Subway sandwich in front of him. He had just got home, it was two in the morning, and he hadn't slept more than two hours in the past three days. He hadn't showered in a week, was in desperate need of a hair cut, and thick stubble lined his jaw. He was, in fewer words, a wreck. In comparison, Clyde stands clean shaven, and neat in the standard (but small) kitchen.  
"How long has it been?" Stan mutters, and Clyde takes a deep breath – obviously still upset at his friend missing in action, and answers.  
"Three days… I'm worried, Stan, what… what if they've murdered him?!" he exclaims, and Stan merely shakes his head.  
"If they'd done something, we would've heard from… well, you know who I mean." The kitchen is silent, until the screeching sound of chair on tile pierces the two adult's ears, and Stan stands with a slightly annoyed look on his face. He sighs to himself; Kenny was supposed to have been in charged whilst he rested, and cleaned himself up, so what the hell was Clyde doing coming to call on him, and tell him about Craig's absence? He'd be damned if he knew.  
"You okay, Stan?"  
"Why'd you come here, why not to HQ?" the filthy man asks, staring down at the table and picking at a random stain. Clyde looks taken aback as he was not really expecting to be asked such a question, and stammers a bit before remembering why he had come to Stan's house directly, and speaking to the man before him in a slow, unsure voice.  
"Well, I went to HQ, but Kenny said you'd gone home, so I came here." He answers, and Stan sighs in frustration, before turning and walking quickly out of the door, pulling Clyde after him by the front of the brunette's jacket.

Their so-called HQ, is in fact the renovated basement of the otherwise dilapidated Shakey's Pizza Restaurant. One of the buildings that is still relatively whole, where-as the majority of South Park is broken down, or burnt, or just unused.  
As soon as the two set foot in the basement, lined with desks, old laptops, and restaurant chairs, Stan jogs up to a skinny, dirty blonde and pins him against the wall.  
"Ooh, someone's eager!" Kenny says in a teasing voice, but the grin on his face changes to a frown of confusion when he remembers sending Stan home earlier that night. "Wait a moment, aren't you supposed to be at home, getting rest and," he pulls a face of disgust at Stan's smell, "washing?" he finishes, and Stan gives him a mocking grin.  
"Kenny, dude… tell me something, 'cause I'm a bit lost," Stan mutters, "I was just wondering, dude, why Clyde didn't know that I'd left you in charge?" He smiles sweetly at his pinned friend, who in turn looks over Stan's greasy head at the other people in the room watching them both intently.  
"W-well, I just… forgot to tell communications, I guess." He manages, and Stan drops him violently onto the floor before spinning on his heel and glancing around the room.  
"Where's Butters?" as soon as the words leave his mouth, the small amount of people in the room, aside from Clyde who was stood with a rather confused look on his face, all turn to a fold-able table under which a silhouette is sat with it's knees pulled to it's chest. Stan sighs, and walks slowly over to crouch next to the table.  
"Butters?"  
"B-butters ain't here right now, Stan, please leave a-a message after the tone… uh, t-tone." The blonde boy murmurs, and avoids looking at Stan, who smiles and shakes his head.  
"Butters, I just want to know why Clyde wasn't told about Kenny being in charge." He says, in a soft voice, and Butters slowly looks at him.  
"…Because Kenny was t-to busy starin' at titties to t-tell me…" he stammers, and Stan stands up, before turning slowly to look, along with everyone else, at Kenny with a tiresome look. Kenny grins apologetically, and backs into the wall; his hands held up in defence.  
"What? I was horny!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two, slightly longer than the last.  
Again, con-crit welcome, but no flamers, thanks.  
South Park is owned by Matt Stone, Trey Parker, and Comedy Central. No money is made from this, and it is purely fan-made.

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"Feeling better?" Clyde looks up at the clean shaven, now short haired Stan towering over him with a smile. It was now nine in the morning, seven hours after the communications failure, and there was still no sign of Craig. There is a bruise on Stan's left cheek, Clyde notices, causing his eye to be half-closed from swelling.  
"Mm.." Clyde doesn't want to talk about it, not yet, and Stan does not understand in the way that someone would in the same situation, but he can imagine what Clyde must be feeling, and so doesn't press the matter.  
"Listen," Stan clears his throat, looks around Clyde's study, and pulls a nearby chair towards himself so that he can talk to Clyde easily.  
"He'll be fine, like I said; if they'd done anything, we'd know by now." Stan rests a bruised hand on Clyde's shoulder, albeit awkwardly, and the brunette looks at it before saying, without looking away,  
"He back yet?" referring to Kenny, as Stan took advantage of the fact that Kenny was, in a way, immortal, and killed him whenever Kenny had done something either completely stupid, or he just felt like he needed to kill something.  
Stan also looks at the hand and smiles in an almost nostalgic way.  
"If he is, I haven't heard from him yet." He removes the hand, and looks up at Clyde; noting the worried expression.  
"Don't worry," he winks, rises, and walks towards the study window to drape a leg over the frame, "he enjoyed it!" are his final words before clambers outside, shuts the window behind him, and jogs across Clyde's lawn.  
Clyde smiles, sadly, to himself and thinks about Craig. Part of him is sick with worry about how his greatest friend is doing, but the other is telling himself not to worry because Craig's tough and can cope with whatever they throw at him.

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Craig Tucker leant back against the stone wall. He was unshackled, unchained, yet he'd never felt so trapped in his entire life. There was one, small window to his right, and at the top of the wall. It was barred. The door on in front of him was thick, not metal, but thick; as though the room he was in had only recently become a cell. Outside, the guards changed every two hours – by Craig's counting, he had no watch and no clock to go by – and currently there was someone by the name of Tango Bravo, who never spoke. Even when Craig sat with his back to the door and shouted through the thick wood, there was no reply. It wasn't because he couldn't be heard, because he could hear through the door just fine. It was because, even though he couldn't see the guard, he had recognised the deep voice when they arrived and said 'Double Penguin, I relieve you of your duties.' Craig recognised the voice, and he didn't like it. Not, one, bit.

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Gary Harrison sits alone on a beaten up sofa, in a flat in the so-called 'nice' part of town. In his hand is a chipped mug, filled with luke-warm milk, and he's been holding it for the most part of half an hour. He does this most days, just sits and stares at the holes in his carpet, wondering where it all went wrong. His parents left four years ago, he was twenty, and they offered to take him back to Utah with them, but he couldn't. He couldn't.  
An unexpected knock at the front door jolts him out of his stupor, and he almost drops the mug in his hands. As though questioning it's very existence, he stares at the door with it's cracked and peeling cream paint job in desperate need of re-doing. But who has the money, these days, aside from those who live up the mountain side?  
More knocking sounds, and this time it's accompanied by a voice.  
"Gary, for fuck's sake, dude, let me in. All you're doing is staring at the carpet, so open the door or I'll fucking kick it." Stan Marsh's voice is serious, and so Gary hurries to put the mug down and wrench the door open. Sure enough, Stan is stood with his leg in mid-air with Butters Stotch and Wendy Testaburger behind him.

"You know that's very rude, don't you?"  
"Fuck off," the two young men grin at each other, and Gary stands aside to let the three of them in. He shuts the door, and ushers everyone into the living room, where he realises that he will have to get two chairs from the kitchen next to them, in order for every one to be able to sit down.  
When they are all seated, Gary smiles around at the three of them, though they are wearing sombre expressions.  
"So, why're you all here?" he puts forward, and Stan sighs from his place on the sofa next to Gary. Butters swings his legs on the chair that squeaks when he moves, and Wendy crosses her legs before staring at her hands in her lap.  
"Kenny found another body last night." Stan says, clearly, and a grim silence follows. It is a short while before anyone speaks, and he sighs deeply. "It was a friend of Ike Broflovski's, Filmore Anderson, and further examinations reveal that he was shot with a .45 calibre bullet, the same as the others." There is another eerie silence, and Wendy adds to the sentence.  
"That brings the death toll to seven." She murmurs, "It turns out that the enemy are still blaming Stan when it's a death that relates back to them… It is unclear to all of us exactly why they're targeting Stan, but we're working on it. Hopefully, we'll be able to stop this madness before anymore people are killed." She finishes, and Gary nods solemnly.  
"Let's hope so."

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Eric Cartman stands on his own in his usual place outside the Police station. It had been his idea, after all, to use it as headquarters because the cops were a symbol of authority, and Cartman respected authority above all else. He was fat, not as fat as he used to be as a child, but still on the large side none-the-less, and his black waistcoat was undone over a white shirt, and black tie. If passers by could see him, or if, indeed, there _were_ any passers by, they would think he had maybe just come from a funeral. They couldn't be more wrong, however, because Eric had not been to a funeral since his mother's at the age of twelve. She died from overdose, her own fault, but he couldn't help feel saddened by the memory; she was his mother, after all, crack-whore or not.  
The day after her funeral, he had stayed in his house, on his own. He pitilessly shot anyone who dared to try and send him into care, and slowly learnt that he would have to learn to take care of himself if he wanted to get anywhere in life. The first few months were hell, to him. He started (and fortunately put out) seven fires from bad cooking, and had to go some days without food because of stubbornness and refusal to cook anything. He still had a scar on his left index finger where he half-severed it with a carving knife when trying to cut meat.  
The only person, who visited him after his mother's death, was Kenny. Eric supposed that, though he would never admit it, he was, in a way, thankful to his friend for being there… but then Kenny left when he was fifteen, and he was left alone. That was the way it was until Ike Broflovski drowned in Stark's Pond, and Kyle, dear Kyle, turned to him to help get back at Stan who he believed was to blame for Ike's death. How wrong he was, but Cartman wasn't going to ruin the one chance he had for human contact, especially when said human was Kyle Broflovski. No way.

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Back in the basement of Shakey's pizza, all important to the 'resistance' had gathered. Kenny, Wendy, Stan, Butters, Clyde and Gary were there, and so was the French, young mercenary, Christophe. No-one, and that means no-one, knew his surname, and so he was affectionately called 'Christophe The Mole' by anyone who was asked for his full name. Asking Christophe himself what his surname was, meant having a cigarette put out on your bare skin. No-one dared, except Kenny who strangely enjoyed it.  
A plan to break Craig out of his current location at the Police Station – come enemy HQ was being hatched around on of the old Shakey's tables, with Stan at the head and stolen blueprints laid out in front of them. Earlier that day, both Clyde and Christophe had snuck into the grounds surrounding the Station, and had (for Christophe's sake) examined the tarmac around it.  
"As we know," Clyde stands, and begins, "Christophe, and myself, receive updates from our inside informant who shall remain unknown, and he tells us that Craig is being held here," he points to the left hand corner of the blueprints, where two adjacent, small rooms are. "Apparently, the enemy has converted these two offices into cells, and Craig is being kept in the one on the far right. Christophe?" Clyde sits, again, and the daunting Frenchman on his right stands, taking a drag on his cigarette and putting it out on the table, leaving one of many burn marks.  
"Oui, ah 'ave exameened ze grround outside ze main building, and ah 'ave peecked ze best spot to begin ze diggeeng." He points out an area at the back of the building, more to the right hand corner than the left, and clears his throat. "Unfortunately, ah weell be on ze wrong side of ze buildeeng, but ah will do my best to release Crag." He sits, again, and leans back on his chair to place two worn military booted feet on the table in front of him, small chunks of dried mud falling loose in the process and scattering on the wood. Wendy, on Christophe's right, pulls a face and shuffles her chair away from the 'mole' and his boots. This earns her a glare, which she defiantly returns, and Christophe scowls at her.  
Stan scratches the back of his neck, nervously, and looks to Kenny who is doodling stick figures with gigantic boobs on an old napkin in front of him. He sighs, and crosses his arms; leaning back in his chair to observe his friend deep in concentration with his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.  
"Kenny?" the blonde looks up from his drawings, tongue still poking out, and Stan has to stop himself from laughing at the ridiculous sight.  
"Anything to add?" the tongue goes back in, and Kenny stands, scrambling in the holey pockets of his orange jacket before bringing out a piece of toilet paper with ink blotted all over it. He takes a deep breath, but before he starts talking, a British double-decker bus comes through the wall with a deafening CRASH and somehow manages to only hit, and kill, Kenny.  
There is a stunned silence as the rest of the group stare at the rubble, the remainder of the empty bus, and Kenny's corpse. They continue to stare for a few minutes, before Clyde voices all their thoughts.  
"But… we're in the BASEMENT!"


	3. Chapter 3

Shorter, again.  
Don't own, don't sue.  
Con-crit welcome, not flamers, thanks.

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The Graveyard is cold, and as dark as pitch save for a few candles left on some of the fresher graves. A figure, dressed all in black with fair hair and a pointed but masculine face stands beneath an old oak tree, from which a lantern hangs on one of the overhanging branches, illuminating the grave before the blonde, and revealing it's occupant to be 'Nathanial, 1986 – 2012.'  
"Back again, Christophe?" the blonde acknowledges the brunette who has been sat on the wall behind the massive tree for sometime now.  
"It was you who called me, Gregory." The accented voice comes with it's owner from the gloom, and Christophe stands beside his friend, squeezing his hand once, gently, and throwing a single white lily down onto the grave.  
"Indeed. I have information for you. I know who killed Filmore Anderson, who killed those were already gone." The words leave Gregory's mouth, and Christophe takes a drag from a burning cigarette, it's end giving off a small red glow.  
"Who eez eet?" he whispers, and Gregory turns to face his friend.  
"What will you do if they get me, too, Christophe? You are my oldest, and closest friend, I do not know what," Gregory is silenced by Christophe turning to observe him and put a hand to his mouth, gently.  
"I know not, Gregory, but…" the Frenchman falls silent, and his hand goes back to his side before he shuffles his feet, drops his cigarette, and pulls Gregory into a tight, awkward hug. Gregory's arms stay pinned to his sides by Christophe's arms, but he leans his chin on the dirt-covered man's shoulder.  
"You are in desperate need of a bath, my friend." He mumbles, and Christophe just hugs him tighter before pushing him away so hard that Gregory almost falls over. The two cough, straighten out their clothing, and the Brit dusts himself off as some excess mud is now streaked on his arm and probably his face.  
"Anyway, this information it," he begins, but never finishes as the sound of a silenced gun goes off, and Gregory arches his back as the bullet collides with him. It takes Christophe two seconds to realise that his friend has been shot, one more to reach out his arms and catch his falling companion, and two more after that to begin crying. Within the first three seconds, Gregory breathed his last.  
"Gregory?" Christophe's voice is small, little above a whisper, and when there is no reply but Gregory's blank stare, he pulls the blonde toward him and cries quietly into his dead shoulder. Later, he would be happy that the last moments of Gregory's life were in a hug with him, with a friend instead of an enemy, but for now, Christophe would grieve, and curse the bitch in the sky for taking Gregory from him.

Four days later, and another meeting is held in the basement of Shakey's pizza. Christophe hardly speaks anymore, and an aura of grief still hangs over their group. Stan had taken Christophe aside, and told him that if he wanted, he could take a week away from all of this, but the Frenchman had merely told him that Gregory would not have wanted him to have grieved alone.

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Bebe Stevens takes a drag from her cigarette and glares down at the snoring naked man in her bed. She wonders to herself, about why she didn't listen to Wendy, about why the hell she sided with Him. Part of her told her it was sympathy, but she didn't know what to believe anymore. She hated herself, though. She hated how she had let herself be used over, and over like some blow-up doll. She hated how, now, it seemed like she had chosen the wrong side. She hated how she had made her friends hate her, too.  
She sighs, and mumbles 'Fuck it,' before putting out the cigarette, and slipping out of bed.  
Ten minutes later, she is walking down the road, lit orange by the sunrise, in laddered fishnets, a mini-skirt, and tank top. Her high-heels hanging by the straps from her left hand. She comes to a park, small with only a set of rusty swings and a sandbox, and sits on the one swing that isn't only attached on one side. Slowly she swings backwards and forwards as her mascara bleeds from crying over her dead life.

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Craig is sleeping when Christophe's shovel comes up between his legs, cracking through the wooden floor. The loud crunching and creaking noises wake him up, and his eyes widen at the sharp, rusty shovel coming through the floor dangerously close to his crotch.  
"Christophe, if that's you, you're getting a little close to the family jewels, if you catch my drift…" he whispers, and muttering can be heard through the floor until a reply comes through.  
"Zen move, beetch." Craig smiles to himself, and nods. It's Christophe, alright. He backs away from the growing hole in the floor and positively beams when the Frenchman's head and shoulders pop through the floor. He doesn't get very far, however, because a slighter man uses him as a sort of ladder to push himself out of the hole, and Craig is suddenly tackled by Clyde.  
"Dude!" Craig yelps, and looks over his friend's shoulder to witness Christophe attempting to get out of his own hole, only to be once again pushed back in by Kenny also using him as leverage.  
"Ah'm going to keell you, Kenny!" Christophe shouts, and finally clambers out only to pounce on the blonde, who laughs and says, much to everyone else's amazement,  
"Go ahead, you people are the one's who called orgasms 'little deaths', why else do you think I don't mind dying?!" he exclaims, and Christophe pulls a look of disgust before pushing Kenny to one side, and signalling to Craig and Clyde to hurry into the hole.  
"We 'ave made a lot of noise, we shall 'ave to 'urry!" he says, in an urgent whisper, and all four of them jump back into the tunnel; Craig first, and Christophe bringing up the rear just as the sound of jangling keys can be heard outside the door. Christophe starts panicking, however, when he looks into the tunnel and sees that the others are not moving.  
"What air you waiting for? Go!" he shouts, and Clyde turns around to talk past Kenny,  
"We can't, the tunnel's caved in! One of the support beams split, and the ceiling fell to bits!" he yells back, and a look of unhappy realisation sets on Christophe's face as a torch shines on him from above and a British voice says,  
"Well, well, I seem to have found a French piece of shit." The light-blonde, willowy man sneers down at Christophe.  
"You wet, Engleesh son of a beetch." Is the reply, and further down the tunnel Kenny rolls his eyes at Clyde before whispering,  
"Fucking Europeans." At him.  
Pip Pirrup stands up straight, and whistles to someone outside, who comes in and stares down into the tunnel, as well.  
"Tango, I want you to send this man to my quarters. There should be three others in the tunnel, I believe you know them." Pip sends Christophe a smirk, and walks away as Tango starts to pull a struggling Christophe out of the hole to reveal Kenny, glaring up at him.  
"I always wondered what happened to you, Token." He snarls, and feels Clyde freeze up next to him. Token doesn't respond, however, aside from spitting at Kenny and dragging Christophe away as more men gathered around the entrance to the tunnel, ready to deal with them.


	4. Chapter 4

Shortest yet.  
Trey n Matt own them, not me, and I don't get anything out of doing this.  
Con-crit welcome, but not flames. Thanks.

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Meanwhile, at Shakey's, Stan is pacing up and down the room, running his hands through his hair, and glancing at his cell phone on his desk.  
"Come on, Kenny," he mutters, and is too busy pacing and mumbling to notice Gary approaching him. The Mormon stands, and takes in the worried wreck that is Stan Marsh.  
"Stan?" he eventually says, but gets no answer. Butters joins him, and looks up at Gary who shrugs back.  
"Stan?"  
"WHAT?!" both Gary and Butters look at him in offence, and Stan flops down into his seat. He sighs, heavily, and the three remain silent until Stan jumps upon hearing his phone ring on the table next to him; the song 'Don't Cha' by the Pussycat Dolls coming out of the small speakers. He rushes to grab it, and answers it in a panicked voice.  
"Kenny?!" he exclaims, but the reply is not his friend. Not anymore.  
"Not quite." The voice makes Stan's blood run cold, his mouth turn dry, and his heart beat louder than usual.  
"What have you done with him." His voice is sincere, and the person at the other end laughs horribly.  
"Don't worry yourself, he's not dead. Well," there is a pause, and Stan can hear the speaker grin. "Not anymore," Stan takes a deep breath through his nose, and licks his mouth.  
"What do you want?"  
"An exchange. Kenny, in return for Him." Stan goes silent, because it is a difficult choice to make. On the one hand, Kenny is his best friend, and combined with the inability to die, it made him useful. However, immortality was nothing compared to Him… The only choice would be to play unfairly.  
"Okay. Where do we exchange them?" he whispers, and a small chuckle vibrates down the cell phone.  
"How about… Stark's Pond, about… nineteen minutes past eight, sound familiar?" are the last words to be spoken, and Stan doesn't even get a chance to agree as the caller hangs up.  
In a fit of rage that follows, Stan doesn't even hang up himself. Instead, he screams at the phone and throws it at the nearby wall; catching the attention of everyone in the room. Gary is first to speak.  
"What is it, what's going on?" he sounds nervous, and Stan looks at him darkly.  
"Do you still have your key?"

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South Park Elementary isn't one of the few buildings that still stand complete. The only thing that remains is a couple of walls, and the front door which gives off an air that simply says 'Don't come any closer' to people who try.  
Stan and Gary stand in front of the doors, the blonde stood closer than Stan, with a thick, silver chain around his neck. On which hangs a black globe the size of a large marble that if one was to look at for longer than a glance, it would give off an odd feeling of non-existence. It weighs nothing, literally nothing, and gives off no heat. If you couldn't see it, it wouldn't be there.  
"Good luck, give my regards to Him for me." Stan tells Gary, who nods and walks slowly towards the double doors, only to vanish as soon as he comes within a metre of them.  
As soon as Gary walks through the hole in reality, he finds himself stood in the empty, but complete, school as it was four years ago. Instead of the usual entrance hall, however, he finds himself stood just in the doors to the gymnasium, in the middle of which is a throne made from a similar material to the globe around Gary's neck. If he were ever to remove the globe whilst in this realm, he would die.  
Upon the throne sits an impossibly perfect-looking human being with jet-black hair like the depths of space, and red eyes that blaze like the sun. His skin is as pale and as flawless as untouched snow, and on his body, a deep purple robe woven from the final breaths of innocent souls seems to move without wind. This is Him. This is Damien.  
"Why, Gary, to what do I owe this," Damien draws a deep, satisfied sounding breath through his nose and breaths out with the final word, his voice clear and creamy like his complexion, "pleasure?" whilst Damien is the complete definition of grace at this point, Gary seems uneasy – as though having an inward fight with himself.  
"We need you, Damien," his voice is stiff, and forced, as though his brain wants him to say something different. This was the effect that Damien had on everyone, he was the embodiment of temptation, and therefore flawless and bewitching. Gary hated this about him, because it was the complete temptation that he lost his virginity to the first time he visited.  
"Hmmm?" every sound that Damien made always seemed to sound, in a word, orgasmic, and he glides over to Gary, his toes just grazing the gymnasium floor as he defies gravity. In order to fight the urge to tackle Damien, and give in to temptation by having sex with him right there on the floor, he grits his teeth, and stares straight ahead whilst Damien caresses the side of his face with the back of one hand, and slowly rubs his chest with the other.  
"We… we need you… to… to…" Gary gulps as Damien presses a kiss to his cheek, feeling like a rose petal, and floats around to float behind Gary to drape his long, pale, hairless arms over the blonde's shoulders, pressing the side of his face to Gary's neck.  
"Go on, Gary, please do," Damien's breath is hot as he whispers into the would-be angel's ear, seductively.  
"We need you to help us, get Kenny McCormick back from… from…" his defences start to fall, and Gary turns his head to look straight into the fiery red eyes of Damien. Inwardly, he sighs in frustration, and gives in as he wraps his arms around Damien's middle and pulls him into a long, slow, but heated kiss.  
"I hate you," he growls, pulling away, and Damien gives him a pleasurable smile,  
"Everyone always does,"


End file.
